humid morning
a dappled island path
through late-summer green foliage
tall yellow daisies everywhere
a turgid river the color of mud,
as I sweep by,
remembering the Guardsmen who crossed it
pretending to be soldiers,
when wild turkeys emerge from a nest in a low tree
and follow their mother one by one
while two fawns watch
thin as greyhounds

Che uomo. Is this not the coolest Italian who ever lived? A football manager so hip that even the notoriously fickle English fans love him. Cuter than Marcello Mastroianni in his prime. A master tactician who never loses no matter who he puts on the field. A modern Italian male without sex dripping out of every pore. A practical, level-headed guy without a Caesar complex. Why can’t we hire such a one? Well, of course, first of all, we can’t afford him, and, secondly and most importantly, he wouldn’t kowtow to the soccer geniuses at the U.S. Soccer Federation. Glimpses of genuinely inspired play such as we saw at the 2002 World Cup and, recently, at the Confederations Cup are flukes. We’re doomed forever, football fans. Get used to it.